Patience Is A Virtue
by Zipper Whippersnapper
Summary: He had been ousted, it was true, but there were other kingdoms out there besides that of the Sanctuary. It was a pity that they had not realised that, because the power he now craved was much different then what he had once held.
1. Chapter 1

*This plot stuck in my head a while ago and WOULD NOT leave, since I'm such a 1 fangirl. I was just thinking about how, during the movie, 1 lost almost everything he had known, bit by bit. This is just a postulation: what if he had lost it all? Where would he have gone from there?

*This is set before the movie. 1 through 8 are alive; 9 hasn't awaken yet.

Life around the Scrapheap was simple: strike or be struck. The only way of insuring an edge over your enemies was to make enemies and keep them close, take whatever resources you could get and guard them jealously. It was rough, true, but it was better than the emptiness. At least when a Fabricated machine came by everyone banded together, dragging down the beast, squabbling over the parts and rejoicing afterwards before going back to their own existences. It was written in the Law that this should be, and no one challenged the Law. To know the Law was to know peace, safety, _pride_.

1 knew the Law well. He had been tasked with writing most of it down.

He was perched on the roof of one of the shelters, taking in the landscape. To an untrained eye, one would see a barren lot, littered with piles of debris and twisted metal. However, 1 had lived here long enough to be able to pick out the carefully hidden shacks and structures. There were no machines to be seen—it was the late time of day, everyone was at rest. Night would come soon, blotting out everything save for the small areas where makeshift generators and lights stood, illuminating the pavement and lighting the way for the inhabitants. Then everyone would come out and begin the nightly Search.

1 chuckled slightly as he remembered how he had once feared the night and cowered in his shelter as soon as the sun sank beyond the world. Back then he had been such a fool—he had had the right motives, the right goals, but no rules. No Law. Memory sparked in his exposed skull, the sparks darting out from the spaces between gears.

"_We can't keep going on like this, 1." 7 huffed. "You call this living? Cowering in your 'sanctuary' with your bodyguard, ordering us all around? This isn't living—this is surviving, and nothing else."_

"_What do you expect?" he angrily shot back. "There's too much at stake to do anything but that!"_

_7 glared at him. "For you, you mean. You don't want to lose your—"_

No matter. 1 let the images and sounds fade from his consciousness. 7 no longer was a part of his life; she was no doubt 'living' somewhere out there with the others. It would do him no good to dwell in the past.

A soft tapping sound alerted him to a visitor; a metal figure scurried up to him, its six metal legs scrabbling on the concrete and clinking rhythmically. Spiderlike, it ran up the side of the small shack and came to a stop beside 1. Two small blue light bulbs lit up, then dimmed in greetings. 1 nodded and held up a hand, closing it, then opening it. _I'm busy._

_Silirvas needs you. She says she needs your help in repairing the Generator. Payment will be in electricity. _The six metal limbs waved and swayed to and fro, signing the message. _You need to be at the Generator now. _

1 considered the truth of the statement. It was well known that he was not the best repairman—Dremil and Sers were two machines better at fixing things, for a start. But then again, they did not have his four-fingered, humanlike hands. If small objects needed to be put into place, he would be needed.

_No machine may refuse to repair the Generator, either with service or parts. Punishment is an embargo._

The Law again. 1 knew that he had no choice in the matter; it was true that he didn't require the electrical charges to survive, but mentally it was a requirement that must be regularly fulfilled. Even now he could feel his last charge winding down—he'd need another jolt soon. No choice, then.

1 pointed to himself, flexed his fingers, then punched the air. _I will fix the Generator._ He waved the other machine away and began to cautiously climb down from the roof. Once the cracked concrete was under his wood-and-metal feet he began to walk towards that hulking contraption in the middle of the lot: the Generator.


	2. Chapter 2

*I tried to keep this story canon, but it may wind up drifting off into AU territory, -_-; Hope you don't mind.

It took longer than expected to reach the Generator, mainly because of the general disrepair of 1's body. Constant electrical shocks had scorched his cloth skin; in places, it was fragile, crumbling at the slightest touch into a stream of ash that clogged up gears and froze joints. 1 had at first tried to repair the tears and gaping holes in his 'skin', but had slowly replaced that with tying rags over them—it was quicker and easier than finding a makeshift needle and shredding fabric to make thread. Finally, he had given up on repairing himself altogether and let his cloth skin rip and fall off as it pleased; it would only stay repaired if he quit electrocuting himself, and that was assuredly not happening anytime soon. It was better to not waste the resources on repairs that would not stay for long.

_No machine may waste parts for recreation or unnecessary repairs. Punishment is the removal of those wasted parts while the machine is aware._

That was something 1 did _not_ want to experience. He had seen others being punished for wasting resources—the offending parts had simply been ripped out as the machine struggled and signed for mercy; two 'fists' slamming together desperately—_help! help!_—over and over again. No, he would avoid the wrath of the Law for as long as he possibly could.

It took some time, but finally 1 got to the Generator. The machine dwarfed him, a hulking metal contraption that was feathered with hundreds of small wires. Normally, it would be humming and banging, spitting out sparks; the wires occupied by a constant swarm of power-starved machines. Now, though, the Generator was silent, the wires cold and drained. If they weren't hot in less than an hour, 1 knew that there would be hordes of machines—new and old, big and small—clamoring for the vital lifeblood of the Scrapheap, electricity. It had to be repaired soon.

"1! Come over here—I need your help putting these damn screws in place." A beautiful voice—no, _voices_, it seemed that there were three of them all speaking at once, came from a corner of the Generator. Silirvas. 1 made his way over to the area, joints protesting. For a moment 1 wished he had his staff—it was ornamental, but it at least supported him that time ago, when he was the leader—

"There you are. It took you long enough, didn't it?" The machine said, looking up from a pile of screws and bolts. Silirvas was, other than him, the most humanlike robot in the Scrapheap. Bipedal, manipulating objects with two skeletal, three-fingered hands, she had even managed to find and install a voice box when she was created. She had also found the Generator during the chaos of the human's war, hiding it away until all was still and there was nothing but destruction and the machines that were left behind by humans. She was, without a doubt, the most powerful one of the Scrapheap; she knew how the Generator worked and how it had come to be. Her eyes—so very much like his, 1 thought, but different, the shutters only going up and down—narrowed. "Lost in thought, old man?"

1 jerked himself out of his train of thought. "You could say that."

"Of course I can. You haven't been charged in a while. Now help me get these last few parts in place so that the thing can work again." She held out a bolt in one hand, its accompanying nut in another. Gingerly 1 took the two pieces of metal, putting them into place where Silirvas dictated they should be. Time crept by slowly, but 1 stayed quiet and continued to put the parts back in place, thinking all the while of the electricity that would surely follow. These thoughts made the time crawl by quicker; soon he was tightening the last bolt and the Generator was again humming and belching out heat and power.

Silirvas held out a wire, silently staring at 1 as he grabbed it from her grasp, careful to grip it by the part that was insulated. As much as his mind and body clamored for the voltage, he wasn't going to waste the jolt on a limb. No, he'd go straight to his core. Carefully he picked a spot on his head where the skin had been burned away and touched the wire to his exposed skull. Immediately the world dissolved into an unfocused blur of color that flickered as his optics shuttered and unshuttered rapidly. Sounds took on a muffled, ethereal quality, and a feeling of extreme happiness overtook him. It was all okay! Everything was alright! He worked, that was true, but in return he received wonderful, magical electricity! It was all good, everything was nice; it was—

The stream of power was cut off. 1 paused, processing this simple fact. Silirvas tapped his shoulder with one hand, waving the cold wire in the other. "That was it, old man. After all, you only put some screws back in place." She half-shuttered one eye in a mechanical brow-lift. "You know, I still can't understand that sound you make when you get your jolt."

1 frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"That sound…" Silirvas tried to replicate it; a mirthless mechanical _hahahaha_ that died away quickly. The machine blinked. "It's like that. It's bizarre…why do you make it?"

"I don't know. I just do." 1 was slightly perturbed; he hadn't known he did that. For a second he remembered 8 with his magnet—no! He _wasn't_ like that…was he? 1 didn't think so and didn't want to think so. It didn't matter in the long run; he still needed it even if he didn't like that he needed it.

Silirvas gazed at him coldly. "Stop it, then. It's annoying and useless."

_How dare you!_ "Understandable." 1 ignored the steady throb of pain that emanated from the circular burn in his skin. He'd gotten at least _some_ electricity…he could find another source during the Search; perhaps a scavenged battery.

_All findings made during the nightly Search must be shown to Silirvas. Punishment is an embargo._

Alright then, that was out of the question. Maybe he could find some pieces of cloth and rub them together—he had seen power-starved machines trying that and knew that it wasn't prohibited by the Law. Even now he could hear the nightly Search-call: a long, wailing siren that called out the machines. Time to go.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you Majorkami, Fabricated Nightmare, Masako Moonshade, and Luv2muchanime for commenting! Writing fanfiction is great on its own, but the reviews make it even better! *gives cookie* Here, for your reading pleasure, is chapter 3!

_Come on! Don't fall behind! Search!_ The signed commands came thick and fast as the machines swarmed the trash piles of the emptiness. 1 grimaced at the loud, echoing screeches of rusted metal and metal and the explosive _bang_ of something heavy falling to the ground. The Scrapheap's residents—little more then scrap metal themselves—skittered to and fro, picking up parts of trashed cars, buildings, appliances; anything that could be used to repair the Generator and each other. Most of them were built for this task, their many-legged bodies easily travelling over the wasteland and picking up metal shards as they went. They had no audio receptors, only communicating by gestures and stance, oblivious to the cacophony of noise around them.

_No machine may abandon the nightly Search. Punishment is an embargo._

Right about now, 1 was beginning to wish that he was more like them. The constant sound barraged his skull and contributed to the dull throbbing ache that coursed through his brain; one major side effect of the voltage that he'd never been able to ignore, try as he might. He was also at a disadvantage when it came to his gait. Not only was he old and stiff, he was bipedal and had trouble navigating the mounds of earth and scrap that lay, as it seemed, _everywhere_. However, in one respect he did have the upper hand—he'd survived the emptiness before and knew where the best places for finding choice parts would be.

Like now. 1 kicked at the sides of a broken table lamp, trying to break open the base so he could get to the copper wire inside. Wire was a rarity at the Scrapheap and was always in demand—he'd get a good amount of electricity tonight if he could scavenge the coils inside and bring them back himself. A few more blows should do it…

_CRACK._ "Yes!" 1 hissed and grinned to himself, reaching inside the rotted wood frame and pulling out at least a foot of the stuff. He rolled it up and slung it over one shoulder, sagging slightly under the weight. Satisfied and sure that he had gotten all that he could retrieve, he turned and set off in the direction of the Scrapheap, only to pause as he heard the very last thing he wanted to hear:

Two whistles and the bang of metal on metal.


	4. Chapter 4

*Wow, two uploads in one day!! 0w0

One of the first things 1 learned—even before the signs and gestures of the machines—was the meaning of the two whistles and bang. It was the gesture-call for 'intruder', and remained second in importance only to the search-call. When one heard it, they were to do one thing and one thing only: drop everything and rush off to destroy the intruder and protect the Generator.

_No machine may run from a foe of the Generator, but must fight and protect the Generator. Punishment is dismantlement along with the enemy._

1 quickly wrapped his cargo of wire around his chest and stomach, securing it so he knew that it wouldn't snag on anything or fall off. That done, he began to hurry towards the cacophony of mechanical squeals and clangs, cursing under his breath vehemently. As he scurried towards the source of the call, 1 couldn't help but wonder what the commotion was about. Was it a Fabricated machine, or had a Scrapheap machine snapped from too much or too little electricity and attacked another? Either way, he reasoned angrily, it didn't matter. He was still obligated by the Law to destroy them. Nearby, 1 spotted a small length of metal not unlike the device called a "crowbar" and snatched that up, holding it up in an instant club. He was very close to the source of the commotion…

He was part of the first wave, apparently, because the fight he now witnessed was small. One radio-bot lay on the ground nearby; its sensors were deftly cut off. Two more machines sparred with the intruder just up ahead. In the blur of metal limbs 1 couldn't see what was going on or who they were fighting; he decided to take a chance and ran forward, slamming somebody to the side and bursting into the fray—

This couldn't be real. This had to be the electricity…a _ghost in the machine_, as they were called—hallucinations caused by not enough voltage. Because there, right in front of him, stood 8. The giant stitchpunk was wrestling with an enraged machine, matching its screeches of anger with grunts and muttered oaths. Finally he managed to get a hold on the spiderlike torso and simply threw it against a rubble pile. The machine struck the jagged metal and laid still, its glowing eyes now powered off. This wasn't right—the other eight were dead, or at least far away—they couldn't be here, _now_—

7 cried out as she sliced another radio-bot cleanly in half. It was her—1 would recognize that stupid skull helmet anywhere—but it shouldn't be her! They couldn't be here…_no!_ Everything would unravel now! 1 desperately looked from side to side. He was the only one left, but others would soon arrive. If he was caught fleeing, he was dead. But now—if no one was here to witness—

"1?" 7 lifted the skull helmet and stared at him incredulously, her gaze dropping from his charred, torn face to the makeshift weapon in his hands; 1 quickly dropped it. Her expression shifted from surprise to a guarded interest. "What are you—"

1 bolted, charging past 8 and 7 faster than he ever thought he could run and ducking behind a trash pile. The wire almost slipped as he lifted up a section of sheet metal covered in trash and hid underneath—frantically 1 held onto it and crouched down. He just wanted them to go away—to go back to wherever they came from and just leave him here. He wanted electricity…something to shock the memories out of his system. His grip tightened on the copper in his hands. He was going to get good and jolted tonight and forget about them, as soon as they gave up and left…

After what seemed like hours, the footsteps and calls of "1!" faded and it was safe to come out. Slowly 1 stretched his limbs—which had locked into place after staying still for so long—and slowly trod in the direction of the Scrapheap, the weight of copper wire on his back seeming heavier then ever.


	5. Chapter 5

*THREE uploads in one night?!?! This is a first for me! A very gracious thank you to all who reviewed. {8}= (If anyone can identify what this smiley is, you get a cookie.) Please enjoy this chapter!

It was much later when 1 finally got back to the scrapheap and dumped his load of wire onto the giant scrap pile that stood in the center of town every night. One of the sorting-machines, a great two-armed monster with rusted hands, stared down at him and passed him a scrap of yellow vinyl, punching the air and waving with his other hands. _The Generator. Give the piece there—you know what to do._

_Yes. I know._ 1 snatched up the yellow plastic and hurried over to the Generator. A line of robots had already formed, but after scrutinizing the mob for a short while, 1 slipped into the crowd and circumvented most of the line, handing his sliver of vinyl to another machine, who directed him to the Generator-lines. Within a few minutes, he had the wire in his hands, and everything was excellent, wonderful, ecstatic, beautiful…when he finally came back down to earth it was much later, there was a peaceable gap in most of the day's memories, and the machines were signing to each other.

_Go!—where?—the punishment place!—why—WHY?—the law—the law has been broken!_

1pleasantly stared at the two searching-machines; perhaps he should listen to them? His electricity-befuddled brain considered it for a moment, then spit out a conclusion: yes. After all, he had nothing else to do tonight, save for sleep. There was something else, though…something that told him to be on his guard, that something bad had happened and now things were terribly wrong. 1 shrugged to himself and skipped off towards the punishment-place, putting the thoughts out of his mind.

The punishment-place was a monstrous contraption of steel-link fence and mesh stretched across a makeshift frame to form a gigantic shape like an overturned bowl. There was only one entrance: a small area where the wire had been folded back and cut to form a gateway. The door didn't need to be very large—most machines in their right minds did all they could to stay out of the mesh-and-metal cage, for it was here that those who had broken the Law were punished for all to see. 1 began to climb on the outside surface of the 'bowl' occasionally bumping into the robots that were already there; the electricity had filled his limbs with energy but made him forget how to control them. Finally he picked a good spot and clung to the wire, poking his head through a gap in the mesh so that he could see what was going on inside.

The outside of the punishment-place was now completely covered with the small bodies of the machines. More often than not a fight would break out as someone found their spot taken—these squabbles usually ended quickly and violently, with a machine being thrown to the ground and forced to find a new spot to hold on to. The sun had fallen and the only illumination came from a string of multicolored lights that was affixed to the 'ceiling'. The colorful light played over the metal skin of the Scrapheap residents and transformed the environment from one of simple fear to one of the bizarre.

A six-legged machine entered the punishment-place just as a thick silence fell upon it. It was heavily decorated and repaired, and walked with a pronounced limping stride. It made its way the center of the dirt floor and stopped.

_Friends! Brethren! We are gathered tonight as the Law told us we must be! _The search-bot signed, the ornamental scratches and scorch marks on their shell glinting wickedly in the dim glow of the electric lights. _There is a traitor among us—a coward, who ran to save his own skin from those who wish to destroy the Generator and be the end of us all!_

The machines burst into uproar, clanging their limbs together and chattering their rage. The search-bot let this commotion persist for a few moments, then held up his two arms._ But we know the make of this traitor, and as the great Law tells us we will punish them!_ Silence fell, a silence underlain with unmentionable anger and rage. Whoever it was directed upon would not survive. That was a given.

_The Law is great. The Law is good. Woe and harm to those who defy the Law!_ 1 signed, along with the other machines; secretly he wanted to run and hide. A sudden bolt of fear had struck him, driving the voltage-fog from his brain so that he understood his foreboding. He had been found out! But there was no one around when he ran from 7 and 8—how could they have known? Stupid—he should have known that there'd be someone watching. The Law was everywhere, in everything, always watching. Now he would die…

_YOU!_ The search-bot pointed to a machine to the far left of 1's vision; another search-bot so littered with scratches that he may have been the Speaker's twin. The offending robot was wrenched off of the outside of the punishment-place by its fellows and violently brought inside. All the while it would not stop signing. _No—you're mistaken! It wasn't me—it wasn't!_

_Bring the coward here._ This time, it was Silirvas who signed. Her gaze flitted over to meet 1's own. 1 swallowed and stared back, hoping she wouldn't see the relief on his face and begin to wonder why it was there. The Generator-repairer waved the search-bot away so that it was simply her and the terrified robot. She blinked.

_The Law says that the punishment for cowardice is death. You brought this upon yourself—do not plead, do not cry out, but accept it. _She walked out of the enclosure and folded the screen back into place, trapping the unfortunate machine inside. The search-bot held up its limbs again from its position just outside the door.

_Open it._

A few sorting-bots stationed around the punishment-place pulled on a system of ropes, causing the top of the dome to fold in neatly, carrying its cargo of robots with it. The enraged machines jumped off of the dome's shell and pounced on the offender. A great conflict began as it was torn apart and its fellows fought over the pieces. 1 decided that it was time to go; he was too slow to get any choice parts. There wouldn't be anything to trade for power by the time he got to the center of the dogpile. He crawled down to the ground and began to wander away towards his shack. On a whim, he looked back at the commotion.

The machines had scurried off to analyze their new parts. In the center of the punishment-place's floor there was nothing but a space of churned-up earth and a few stragglers fighting over the last remaining pieces. Of the original machine there was nothing left. 1 sighed and wearily signed to himself.

_The Law is great. The Law is good. Woe and harm to those who defy the Law, for without it we would be nothing._

**For anyone who wants to know, the punishment-place was inspired by Mad Max 3: Beyond Thunderdome.


	6. Chapter 6

*Sorry it took me so long to update, but I've had a big karate tournament coming up and practice won out over writing. But now that's over, so here's the next chapter!

The memory of his close brush with death soon vanished from 1's mind, as many memories often did. It was getting hard to focus on much of anything, anyway; day melted into night and into day again without much difference in the rhythm. 1 woke up just before the sun went down, bartered spare parts for electricity, then went on the Search to collect more parts for the Generator. Occasionally his life was punctuated by serious scuffles that forced him to retreat to the Generator and Silirvas for repair, but other than that it was all the same: jolt, search, jolt, search…

How long had he been here? Years? Months? Weeks? Time didn't have meaning anymore, and even if 1 had wanted to he couldn't measure the time he'd spent here. The Scrapheap had no calendar to regulate the days and no clocks to keep track of time. 1 had heard from Silirvas that at first there had been records of what went on, but as the silence that fell over the earth had grown deeper they had been abandoned, as most unnecessary things were. The Scrapheap discouraged and wore down all but the basest, most necessary components of a machine or structure as time dragged on. The code here was fundamental and brutal—weakness, ornaments, and pride are hindrances that drove those who indulged in them to a swift death. There were no exceptions.

1 had given up his pride long ago, along with any hope of ever reclaiming it again. He had given it up the very day that he had staggered into the Scrapheap, lost and still burning from the indignation of being driven from his home. His cape had ripped off in those first few days of terror when he arrived; 1 had been too busy trying to survive in the bizarre new environment of machines and Laws and constant conflict to look for it again. The sudden switch from his carefully regulated Sanctuary to the apparent anarchy had come as shockingly as a jump into cold water—1 had tried to not freeze up and drown in it all. But that wasn't the truth of it…there were rules here: Silirvas's rules and the Law. As much as it stung him to submit to another, if it meant survival he would put up with it for as long as he could. Above all, 1 was a survivor, not a leader or a fighter. He'd lasted this long…he'd last longer still.

His hat had been traded for his first ever jolt of electricity. 1 had decided that the best way to learn about his new environment would be to follow the crowd and copy them. Warily he'd followed them as they weaved between the trash piles and plucked out seemingly random objects, not thinking of engaging in this bizarre activity himself. But when they all got to the Generator and 1 was cornered by one of the search-bots, it had become clear that he had to give up something. After a few quick glances around he had sighed and allowed his hat to be taken away. The wire had been handed to him and he pressed it to his head…1 was overwhelmed by the sudden rush of happiness and energy that washed away his weariness and the internal bruises of his wounded ego.

In that moment 1 had given up his pride, had allowed himself to begin down a track that would make him fall almost to pieces time and again to get his next jolt of pleasure. A vague memory sometimes entered his brain: something about taking a road less travelled by. 1 was walking—no, _running _down this road with every passing moment. Even if the others were still alive—an impossibility, surely—and came looking for him, he was too different from them now to go back. He would never go back to the Sanctuary…the Scrapheap was his home, and he would never leave. The days and nights would pass by and he'd work endlessly, because that was the way things had turned out to be.


	7. Chapter 7

*Sorry for the super-long delay, but I've had classes and the like and this story got put on the shelf. Sorry people! Here's the next chapter, if you're still reading.

_FWWT! FWWT! BANG._

_FWWT! FWWWWWT! BANG._

1's head snapped up and he dropped the piece of metal he was dragging behind him. The gesture-call echoed around inside his head, bouncing around in the area where thoughts

__

of scavenging and electricity had previously been; the transition from one objective to another was shocking, but he ignored the confusion this caused and dashed off. He still had to fight off the threat; it didn't matter if he didn't understand what was going on. The Law took over for that, gave advice and a reason for when there were no reasons to do anything.

_When thoughts do not come, the Law is always there. The Law is everywhere._

Shrill metallic screeching came from his left knee. 1 looked down at the offending joint and balked—it was now so corroded that it could barely support his weight. 1 had never felt any pain from that part of his body—he'd never felt pain from anything except his head when he was short a jolt or winding down from one. But his leg…his leg was going to break now, he was sure. When had this happened—why didn't he notice—

"There he is!" Something seized him by the back of his neck, lifting him up off the ground and catching him in a tight hold. A baritone rumble of a voice—voices? Since when did the machines _talk_? Did Silirvas find a new voicebox?—came from right behind him. "I got him—I got him—"

No, they _didn't_. 1 squirmed and writhed in the strong grip, ignoring the protests of his attacker. He brought one leg up and thrust it down, his foot meeting something soft, like cloth. Cloth—that was odd. He expected unyielding metal, but fabric—no matter, he hurt it, whatever it was, he could fel it flinch and hear a hiss of malcontent. His knee finally gave up and snapped, a cloud of rust-powder drifting from the injury like a last breath. The pain was distant and muffled by the confusion and fear that ran through his remaining useful limbs like electricity. Electricity—he wanted, no he _needed_ a jolt—

This time his shoulder gave out, the arm buckling with a quiet creaking noise and going numb. A large section of his tattered skin ripped away as he managed to break free, falling to the ground and trying to crawl away. The Law-abiding part of his brain howled in protest; he shoved the thoughts of _protect! Protect the generator!_ aside.

His arms and legs wouldn't function—that was strange. Not even the ones that were unbroken obeyed his commands. Shutting down—he was shutting down, like a search-bot without a shock. His vision was broken, too—things were dimming—what was going on? He'd have to get to the generator for repair—

A white, nonmetallic face glared down at him through empty eye sockets. A muffled cry of "1!" came as 1 grumbled to himself. Of course—a ghost in the machine…that was it. A ghost in the machine…


End file.
